


like thunder under earth

by stormss



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Found Family, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Movie: The Old Guard (2020), Tenderness, listen...they're saps okay i don't make the rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormss/pseuds/stormss
Summary: It's like they speak without words, through touches that ground them, that they've come to decipher with ease after nearly a millennium:I'm here, I'm here, we're okay.It's a lifeline, being able to wake up to one another, and through the stench of gunpowder and blood and sweat and toxic gas that still lingers on their skin, they get to walk away,together,and that has to count for something.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 38
Kudos: 334
Collections: The Old Guard ▶ Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani / Nicky | Nicolo di Genova





	like thunder under earth

**Author's Note:**

> this movie has pretty much completely taken over my life, and i have so many other ideas for these two but this one just...wouldn't let me rest, and kind of took on a mind of its own. so please accept my humble offerings of post-movie domestic tenderness and comfort!!! 
> 
> the title is from _nfwmb_ by hozier. come say hi over on [tumblr!](https://reyesstrand.tumblr.com/)

After the lab, time seems to simultaneously expand endlessly and collapse in all around them.

Everything fades into white noise as they move on autopilot, bodies aching with over-exertion, with the weight of countless deaths bearing down on them. Despite it all, it's impossible not to feel that pounding relief when they get to walk away—still breathing, still in the formation that's become second nature after centuries, still together. Andy's revelation feels like an exposed nerve, like an unrelenting searing pain, all of it bringing back to the surface fears that have always been there; fears that this time could be _it._

It blooms into something more tangible when Nicky's body drops, limp and lifeless, a gun pushed violently into his mouth. 

No matter how many times it happens, it never becomes any easier. It's just fire-hot grief, nothing else. 

Joe's pretty sure that his heart stops and starts all over again in the time that it takes for Nicky to gasp awake, hair matted with blood and fragments of bone. It's brutal, and Joe's throat feels raw from his pained yell, as if he too had been shot. But they get a brief moment to themselves, his hand curling around Nicky's forearm as he collects his first full breath since the trigger was pulled. His fingers ghost over Nicky's cheek with his other hand, and Joe feels anchored in time and space when Nicky grips him back just as hard in return. 

It's like they speak without words, through touches that ground them, that they've come to decipher with ease after nearly a millennium: _I'm here, I'm here, we're okay_. It's a lifeline, being able to wake up to one another, and through the stench of gunpowder and blood and sweat and toxic gas that still lingers on their skin, they get to walk away, _together_ , and that has to count for something.

Relief unfurls in his chest when it's all over, and he finds that his wounds have closed up, skin stitching itself together like usual, glass shards and bullet casings dropping to the ground. That sense of relief hits him tenfold when he roams his eyes over Nicky and finds nothing but healed skin under torn clothing. They cram into their unassuming getaway car, and immediately roll the windows down as they drive away; Nile's soft groans as her body heals and Nicky's murmured reassurances to her and Andy's distracted _tap tap tap_ ping of her thumb against the steering wheel all bleeds into the background noise of chirping birds and the hum of the engine.

It feels normal, as the cityscape shrinks behind them with every passing second. 

Somehow, it also feels like it's all too much. 

Joe tilts his head back, and screws his eyes shut, focusing on the task of keeping his breathing steady. Usually, after jobs like these—namely, jobs where shit hits the fan—he finds a way to comfort the others, through quips that will at the very least make the corner of Nicky's mouth curl upwards. But now, the tension is thick, and there's not much to laugh about. 

Shit, he can still _hear_ the vicious crack of that asshole Keane's spine against the cold tiled floor. It had to be done, and Joe doesn't have an ounce of regret about it, but it's impossible not to _feel_ it, every single time. They all do. His senses still feel heightened, he has all the adrenaline pumping through his veins to thank for that, but deep down he's just—he's _tired._ It takes a lot out of them, especially when they have to watch each other die and die and _die_ without any time to heal in between. 

He sees a silver lining in Nile—in her youth, her brightness, her outlook on life, her strength. 

He's also _very_ pissed off. Heartbroken. Exhausted. He squeezes his hands into fists and presses them to his closed eyes. 

"Joe."

Andy's voice is soft, if anything a little hoarse, like she's reluctant to disturb him because she knows him. But he still glances over at her when she calls his name because—well. It's _Andy._ He's slowly become her right-hand over the years for a reason. She jerks her chin to the road ahead of them and Joe follows her gaze out to the gate, all rusted metal with flowering vines coiled around the beams, the only thing standing between them and the November safe house. He tries not to think about how that means he's managed to black out their drive to the Hampshire countryside, instead nodding at her and briefly meeting Nicky's eyes in the rearview mirror, when Booker abruptly pushes open his door. 

"I've got it," is all he says, all of them noticing the heavy silence when he cuts himself off before he can tack the usual _boss_ to the end of his sentence. 

Joe settles back into his seat, watching the back of his best friend, his _brother,_ his jaw clenched tight as Booker deftly moves around coarse patches of unruly weeds before he's yanking on the latch until the gate gives with a loud creak. It opens wide enough for the car to squeeze through, and Joe's eyelids feel heavy even as he forces himself to be alert, checking their blindspots out of habit. 

There's the sudden clang of metal-on-metal, a few muttered curses in French, and when Booker returns to the backseat he's got his thumb to his mouth, though whatever small wound he's suffered from jamming his finger has healed by the time the car starts rolling forward again. Old habits die hard. They drive the last little stretch of the road, pavement slowly giving way to rough dirt and gravel that crunches under the tires, and when they park and file out of the car, Joe meets Andy at her door. 

She shoots him a look, but doesn't say anything about it when he slings an arm around her, acting as extra support as they trek through knee-length overgrowth to get to the worn door of the safe house. It's well-secluded and looks as abandoned on the outside as the majority of their hideouts are, but there's still that prickle at the back of all their necks, that feeling of being watched that they can't seem to shake. 

"We'll do the sweep," Nicky offers, breaking the silence.

Andy's already shaking her head, despite the paleness of her skin, the tiredness around her eyes. "I always—" 

"—go first, yeah, I know," Nile jumps in, though there's no bite to her words. She seems to effortlessly fold into their dynamics, as easy as breathing. She clicks the safety off her pistol, rolling her neck to relieve the last bit of remaining stiffness there before she moves to stand at Nicky's side, sparing a glance at him before moving her gaze back to Andy. "Let us handle it, Andy." 

The two women share a long look, and Joe can't help the grin he cracks over Nile's spitfire of a spirit. 

Nicky's eyes slide from watching the scene unfold to settle on Joe, and it only takes half a second for them to nod and be on the same page. Andy eventually relents and Joe steps back with her, both of them casting their eyes to the fenced perimeter while the other three move into the house. He doesn't have to worry about them, though; Nile's quick-minded and even quicker on the trigger, Nicky's got their backs, and Booker—well, he's _Booker._ They'll be fine. 

Andy's still quiet, and Joe squeezes her shoulder. "You alright, boss?" 

"I will be," she mutters, her fingers finding the pendant that once belonged to Quynh almost on instinct, and Joe pulls her closer and runs his hand up and down her arm. 

Within minutes, the house is cleared; windows are heaved open on the far walls, dust swirling out of the open frames. Nile's the one to eventually come and collect them, unable to hide her look of concern when Andy winces, the sudden movements she makes pulling at her abdomen. 

They haven't had to use the November safe house since '93, but it's relatively clean, and hidden away from bustling city life, and there's enough natural light spilling in through the windows that it doesn't feel too claustrophobic. They try to make each place of theirs as homey as possible, never knowing how long they may need to lay low at any given moment, and so Joe finds an immediate sense of comfort with the familiarity of their collected art and shelves of books and throw blankets; the pots of ink he'd left behind, and the swords on the wall, and the stereo on the mantle with piles of cassettes precariously stacked next to it; the sculptures that are stored in such a way that Nile apparently can't _not_ frown and wave exasperatedly at the four of them. 

As she looks around, Joe helps Andy into the suede recliner, neither of them saying anything about how she has to clutch at his shoulder to steady herself. The chair's positioned exactly how she likes: near the liquor cabinet, with a full view of the first floor to make her life easier when she undoubtedly takes first watch tonight. 

He flicks her ear, and she sticks her tongue out at him, before her mouth quickly screws up into a grimace. 

Nile looks at him questioningly when Booker loudly leaves the house; Joe just shrugs at her. He can't bring himself to exert too much energy thinking about the other man. His eyebrows knit together as he focuses all his attention on Andy. 

"C'mon then, let me take a look," Joe says, kneeling in front of her and gesturing to where her wound has bled through layers of gauze and the cotton of her t-shirt. 

She still has her hand pressed against it, and her fingers come away red when she huffs and yields to his well-meaning efforts. As always, his beloved's there when he needs him; Nicky appears silently at his side, his arms full with items he's scavenged around the house for: a change of clothes for Andy, a bottle of water, a damp cloth. Lastly, he sets down whatever medical supplies he could scrounge up, standing back with his hands on his hips. 

"I need a drink," Andy mutters, eyeing the suture kit that hasn't been opened in decades. 

"Just let me know when you're ready," Joe says, his eyes flitting over to Nile, who hums as she moves closer to pick through the assortment of supplies. 

"I didn't expect you guys to be so prepared," Nile comments, looking up from inspecting the label on a bottle of painkillers. She glances at Joe, then, and asks: "Do you need a hand?" 

Joe wants to tell her to just go and relax, but he knows she probably has the most expansive knowledge on current first-aid methods. Plus, she doesn't seem very keen on sitting idly on the sidelines. He shrugs, and shifts his weight before he taps Andy's knee. "With this one? I could use all the help I can get." 

"Fuck off," Andy says, but she's grinning from behind the unlabelled bottle she's brought up to her lips. 

Joe smiles innocently, and Nile snorts, before she starts rolling up her sleeves. After a few minutes, Andy punctuates her readiness by dropping the bottle to the side table with a loud thud; she unflinchingly pulls off her stained shirt, something that Joe doesn't even blink at. What _does_ fuck with his head, though, is the sight of an open wound on their leader, and it sort of feels like a tipping point—that realization settling in that this is really happening to her. 

He swallows. And they get to work. 

Andy throws her shirt haphazardly toward the door, starting the pile that will eventually include all their clothes that need to be trashed, and she leans back in her chair. Nicky offers distracting conversation, drifting into the role he often took when he was comforting wounded children they pulled out of war-torn villages; he talks, and Andy runs the damp cloth over her face and arms and bruised hands, all while Joe cleans the wound before letting Nile take over, putting in the stitches with a steady hand. 

With fresh gauze in place, Andy accepts the clean tank top and pulls it over her head. Joe stands, and gingerly cups the back of her head before he steps away to give her some space. 

They go through the motions, as smoothly as they can. It turns out that Booker fucked off to get them food—at least, ingredients that Nicky can turn into something edible—and it's clear it's a peace offering. Nicky just frowns before he takes the carton of eggs and disappears into the kitchen. After they all eat, there's tea. After _that,_ they all insist that Nile takes the first shower; she'll need the time to unwind, and all of them remember the inner turmoil after those first few deaths. She's already staked out most of the house anyway, so she knows where she's going when she eventually agrees and treks up the stairs to try and wrangle some hot water out of the iffy pipes. 

But the moment Nile's gone, the room feels heavy. 

Once upon a time, the silence that stretches between them would be considered a comfortable one—someone would eventually crack a joke (Joe) or throw on a match (Booker) and the conversations would start piling up on top of one another. Now, though, they all quietly regard one another, the uncertainty feeling thick in the air, all of them unable to find the words. In the end, it's Booker who breaks the silence: he stands and fiddles with his flask and mutters something under his breath before moving to sit outside. Nicky stares hard at the door Booker retreats out of with a stony glare; it's only when Nile shouts down to them that she's done with the bathroom that Joe starts murmuring to him in Italian, coaxing him, in so many words, to join him in the shower. 

Andy's had her eyes closed for the last twenty minutes, but as they move from their spot on the couch, she still pointedly tells them: "I better not see either of you until the morning." 

"Andy—" Nicky tries, only to be cut off. 

"Nope," she blinks her eyes open to level with him, her gaze serious though tinged with the loving fondness that always seems to be there when it comes to Nicky, even if they're arguing. Andy meets Joe's eyes, and the gentleness doesn't waver. 

He sighs. 

It's been like this for as long as he can remember: Andy telling them to get some sleep, to find some time to be alone, whenever they can. She knows what the past days have done to them, and though he could press the fact that she needs rest more than they do, now, he shares a look with Nicky and it's clear they both know that she's right. 

Like always. 

"Sweet dreams, boss," Joe says softly, and Nicky only relents after crossing the room to quickly press a kiss to Andy's forehead, smoothing a hand over her hair. 

They pass Nile in the hallway once they've climbed the rickety staircase, dressed in the pants that Andy religiously wore for sparring through the eighties, black and loose except for the tight fit at the ankle, along with one of Joe's old t-shirts that she's half-tucked into the waistband. He makes a mental note to take her shopping tomorrow; to try and find a sliver of normalcy in her world that's now turned upside down. 

She's sifting through a stack of weathered records, and she blinks up at them as if she's just felt their presence, watching her take everything in. The smile that Nile offers them is friendly, just weighed down by a tiredness he remembers oh so well. 

"Does it get any easier?" Nile asks, her voice quiet, and he can only imagine how _heavy_ the past few days have been for her. 

Joe glances to Nicky, who immediately jumps in. "It will take some time, but, I like to think so. And—" 

"—you have us," Joe finishes, hoping that she knows that fact. That she knows that she's family, now. She looks away suddenly, biting at her bottom lip, and he adds: "Come and get us tonight, if you need anything." 

He hopes it's enough to reassure her without making her feel like—like she's suffocating. She seems to consider his words for a moment; she considers _him_ for a moment longer, eyes drifting between himself and Nicky, before she nods, with less wariness in her features. 

They slowly retreat to the bathroom, which is one of the larger rooms of the house, unlike some of their hideouts that barely have running water; there's a wide shower and an ornate gold mirror they thrifted that rests above the sink, with a bundle of dried wildflowers nestled into the crook of the frame. Nicky's watching him like he always is, undoubtedly noticing the stiff line of his shoulders. 

Joe closes his eyes when Nicky presses forward, and smooths his thumb over the furrow between his brows. It's easy to forgo any invisible boundaries when they're alone like this. Their reflection becomes skewed as the water warms up and steam latches onto the glass, turning them into a warped, two-headed figure as they move more into each other's space, removing destroyed clothes and wordlessly stepping into the tub. 

Even though the spray that hits them is lukewarm, it feels like a welcomed embrace. 

Joe immediately maneuvers them so Nicky's in front, head tilted back to let the water start working through the tangles and brain matter and bone. Joe runs shaky fingers through his love's hair, before he reaches for the half-empty bottle of shampoo and begins lathering it between his palms. 

As he washes Nicky's hair, his hand is magnetically drawn to the back of his head, even when it's clean; he gently cradles the back of Nicky's skull, the same spot that was blown open only a few hours ago. The muscles of Joe's jaw clench as he moves to the soap, familiar notes of citrus and lavender hitting them as he starts scrubbing down every inch of skin Nicky bares to him, as if Joe can wash all the memories of the last few days off of him. It'd been so sudden, so horrifying, the images on a constant replay in his mind: the deafening blast of the gunshot, the destruction of such a close-range kill. 

Joe finds himself dragging his thumb along the invisible injury long after the water's gone from running red, to a faint pink, to almost completely clear. 

"Yusuf," Nicky half-sighs, and it unbinds the ball of tension weighing over his heart. 

Here's the thing: Nicky _knows_ him. 

Nicky knows how hard he takes these deaths because Nicky's just as bad about it when the roles are reversed. He knows how Joe has to take some time to stew in his thoughts; Nicky knows after so many centuries together that he'll talk when he's ready. Even though words usually spill out of him easily—without a care in the world, poetry dripping from his tongue because it isn't hard as he bares witness to his family, to his love—when brutality comes as it has the past few days, and leaves them hollow, it takes some time to process it all. 

And Nicky always, _always,_ takes it all in stride. 

When he's clean, and it's clear that Joe needs a few more minutes, he turns and starts quietly reciprocating. Joe's eyes flutter shut when Nicky's fingers work through his curls with the shampoo three times, before he moves down to clean the rest of his body. Nicky's subconsciously touching every part of him that was injured, gently caressing the back of his neck, moving down over his chest and ribs. After a moment, Nicky has Joe's left hand in his, tenderly washing dried blood from under his blunt nails, from his knuckles, all with a sniper's precision and patience. When he ducks his head down to press his lips against the back of his hand, Joe feels all the tension promptly ooze out of his body. 

"I was so scared," Joe finally admits, voice low under the spluttering shower-head, no need to skirt around the truth when it's just the two of them.

Nicky meets his gaze, and when Joe brings his right hand down from where it'd been tangled in Nicky's hair to slowly move his thumb along the line of his jaw, Nicky leans into the touch. Softly, he murmurs: "I was, too. Seeing you on that table—it's been so long since I felt fear like that." 

Joe makes a sad noise at the thickness of Nicky's voice, the unspilled emotion welled up there. They're both so angry, so deflated, so desperate to ease each other of the pain they've endured. Joe sniffs, and presses his thumb to the corner of Nicky's mouth as he whispers: "We're getting too old for this, my love." 

Nicky snorts a little, and Joe warms at the sound. 

It's a comment they've been making to each other since the sixteenth century, between the wars that seemed to be never-ending and the jobs that took everything out of them and, eventually, after Quynh was lost to the sea. True retirement was likely never in the cards for them, not while they knew about the good they could do, but it was always nice to fantasize about a life without violence, bringing Andy into the fold of their imagination as they suffered through unimaginable grief. They would imagine a life as farmers, surrounded by animals and crops and the rural landscape of whatever countryside they ended up in. They would imagine a life in the mountains, on the seaside, in an apartment above a bakery. 

And those thoughts were always enough to keep them moving forward. 

Tilting his chin forward, Nicky kisses the heel of Joe's palm, now resting on his cheek. 

Rivulets of water trail down the line of his nose; droplets cling to the ends of his hair, his eyelashes. His eyes are deep—with understanding, with desperation to make everything right. The memories will linger, of course, but they have each other. Sometimes, though, the reassurance has to be constant, never-ending, as deep as the love they have for one another. Nicky moves closer, as if that's even possible, and slips into quietly-spoken Arabic. "You know I am okay, though, yes?" 

Joe nods, because it's all that he can manage, because though his heart still feels heavy, he knows it's the truth. 

He still needs to—he needs to feel that it's real, though. 

And so he closes the space between them, pressing a kiss to Nicky's forehead, to the laugh lines around his eyes that have been there for as long as Joe's known him, even if it took a few years after their first meeting to finally be graced by their presence. Nicky makes a noise in the back of his throat, restless now, his hands gentle as they fly up to frame Joe's face. He pulls him in for a proper kiss, one that they didn't know for sure they'd ever get again back in the van. _That fucking van._ Joe leans into it, easily, as if he'd ever run away from _this;_ he splays his fingers in a loose hold of Nicky's elbows, feeling drawn in by the sturdy line of him against his front. 

He moves his hands downward, tracing along tendons and muscle before he moves even lower, over solid ribs and then the soft give of his hips. It's all familiar; it's _Nicky,_ and he's whole under his fingers, left without a mark, but it still makes Joe's stomach churn, the image of him lying dead so many times in quick succession practically burned behind his eyelids. 

So he kisses him, and kisses him, and when Nicky tips their foreheads together to breathe Joe chases his mouth, until Nicky smiles and playfully pulls at his beard before they're kissing again. But Nicky still knows him better than anyone, any _thing,_ on this planet. And he has his own needs: that innate desire to protect, to make sure Joe's okay, to fix everything, to make him feel safe—however he can. 

Right now, he does it by pressing small kisses along Joe's hairline; to the tip of his nose and the hinge of his jaw. Then, he whispers, " _Yusuf,_ " in that way of his that makes Joe feel like a moth to the flame. Nicky's eyes blink open to properly focus on him as he continues on. "What would make this better? You know I'll do it for you." 

Joe considers it. 

The flame of betrayal and hurt burns all through his chest, and he wonders what could possibly begin to soothe it. All he really needs is this—is his family, is the safety that comes from laying low, is _Nicky._ His Nicolo. And so, instead of offering an actual answer, Joe gives him a look, one that doesn't need an explanation. Nicky's expression grows even fonder, as he kisses his temple, before scrubbing down the rest of Joe's body. He then turns off the tap and grabs towels for them both. 

While they're drying off, Nicky starts softly singing to him, quiet enough so only Joe can hear. Even though it's barely above a whisper, it manages to pierce him right where he longs for his husband, in the valves of his heart that have belonged to Nicolo for nine hundred years. And as he sings, Joe lets himself reflect in an attempt to push it all out of his system; in an attempt to eventually unwind. 

There's still the phantom sting of zip-ties cutting into the thin skin of his wrists; there's still dread pooling in his stomach, sitting heavy like lead when he thinks of Andy, bleeding and unable to stop, mixing with memories of her by firelight, under the harsh lights of a twenty-four-hour diner, grinning in that private way of hers. He sees Nile's body so unnaturally contorted in the flattened car, and in the same moment, sees her laughing quietly at some joke he cracked over dinner that first night as he tried to lighten the mood and make her comfortable. He sees Booker yelling at the TV and Nicky, of course, the light of his life easing the harsh edges of his memory. 

It's still all too much. Too much death; too much killing. 

He drops his head, and feels the line of his shoulders sag, pressing his forehead against Nicky's chest as he lets himself feel grounded in the moment. Joe's comforted by the rise-and-fall as his love sings, at the constant and steady thud of his heart. Nicky continues on, old Dutch melodies he doesn't fully remember, humming to fill in the gaps, seamlessly stringing together verses riddled with words he's lost to time. 

Joe stands straight, then, feeling inexplicably lighter, less on edge. He kisses Nicky's sternum, and rocks into his space. 

"I've got you," Nicky whispers in Italian, singing stalled as they finish drying themselves. 

With towels wrapped around their waists, they thoroughly brush their teeth, Nicky forceful in his attempt to get rid of the taste of lead. Eventually, they move across the hall to the bedroom they usually claim when they're here, littered with stacks of their books and journals, some stray silver rings, the pages upon pages of poetry in Joe's slanted scrawl that they've tacked to the walls. 

They fish clothes out of the drawers, and Joe slowly unfolds a large, clean duvet to spread over their mattress. They usually sleep all together on jobs, comforted by being close to each other, but for now it'll be nice for it to just be the two of them—something they always crave, and savour when they get to have it. 

Joe flops down unceremoniously on the bed, back to the wall, and Nicky shoves a handgun under his pillow before dropping down next to him. They're lost in their own little world, Joe's eyes crinkling as he takes in the way Nicky's mouth is quirked up in what Quynh had once described as his _Yusuf-smile_ —a thought that sparks a deep sadness in his chest. Nicky leans down to press a quick kiss to Joe's cheek, before he turns so Joe can plaster himself to his love's back. 

"My heart," Joe murmurs, once they're settled. The words are spoken into Nicky's nape, and Joe's arms tighten instinctively around him. 

Nicky grabs at Joe's hand, which he'd placed against his chest, and laces their fingers together. He brings his hand upward so he can kiss his knuckles, the inside of his wrist. Again, in Italian, a default when he's worn out, Nicky whispers: "My life." 

It's unspoken, but it's in the foundations of everything they say to one another, no matter the language, no matter the decade: _I love you with all that I am._

They've had a mostly lax year, and so the events of the last few days are sure to keep them sleeping lighter than they have in a long time. But still, drowsiness clouds over them when they're curled up together like this, and Nicky hums Arabic lullabies under his breath until they both drift off to sleep. 

* * *

He dreams of salty air and the melody of waves crashing against the shore. 

_Do you know, I was thinking about Malta._

The memories are of the kind that are drenched in moonlight, lending themselves beautifully to a dream that often comes to him—dreams of kisses that still taste of fresh mint and figs, completely addictive; of Nicolo dragging his mouth away long enough to say, for the first time: "I cannot dream of this world without you," and then: "Yusuf, love of my life. My heart." 

It'd been a long road by that point: from sinking their swords through one another to becoming begrudging companions to friends, decades slipped between their fingers until the _thing_ brewing between them was finally spoken of aloud; before it was finally acted on. In that moment, it was clear that it was love, as eternal as it could ever be, something neither of them would ever let go. 

Nicolo had said his name, and it turned to liquid gold, again and again. 

And so Yusuf had grinned, and joked, "I like the sound of that," mostly to pull a laugh out of Nicolo that sounded like the purest and most beautiful music. They'd tipped their foreheads together and Yusuf had swiped the pads of his thumbs along Nicolo's cheeks. "Oh, how I love you, Nicolo. I will never tire of saying it." 

It had been Nicolo who closed the space between them, in that moment, both of them grinning into it too much for the kiss to really escalate. That came after, though, and he dreams of it happily, reminiscing on the touches that felt sacred, the promises murmured into bare skin, a love soaked in devotion that will still have to be pried from their hands, hundreds of years later. 

Again, in his dreamscape, the waves crash against the shore, the gulls squawk overhead, the moonlight bathes their naked bodies, turning them into something ephemeral and magic and bright. They whisper it again, _I love you I love you I love you,_ a declaration that morphs into vows, a rebirth in the Maltese night. 

* * *

They drink, and debate, and drink some more. 

Nile's quiet through most of their deliberation, casting long glances out the window, fiddling with the gold hoops she'd grabbed at the last minute when they'd been roaming around a local department store in the early hours of the morning. Joe had been watching her closely, picking up on the things she gravitated towards, before he bought them all sugary coffee for their drive back to London. It was tradition, this pub, but it's unimportant to them now as they consider betrayal and punishment. Andy's jaw remains visibly tight the whole time. When it's decided, _one hundred years,_ she effortlessly downs the rest of her whiskey and pushes away from the table and appoints herself with the task of talking to Booker—of saying goodbye. 

Joe can't stop thinking about the sickening collapse of his lungs as he breathed in a lethal dose of toxic gas; the cold metal of scalpels and syringes digging into his skin, digging into _Nicky's_ skin, both of them forced to watch as their respective heart monitors went from hectic beeping to the deafening silence of a flatline, over and over again. It's too fresh for him—for _either_ of them—to think about the possibility of quick forgiveness. They're both angry. They're both mending broken hearts. They haven't grappled with a pain this monumental in so, _so_ long. 

Nicky presses a foot against Joe's under the table, a silent reassurance, and Joe's thoughts soften when he meets Nicky's eyes. 

Joe spares one final glance at Booker, and finds he can barely manage it.

It all moves quickly after that. 

Minutes, hours, it all blurs together as they tie up loose ends in the city; they hole up in Copley's house, raiding his kitchen as they watch as many news broadcasts as possible, relieved to find that the man apparently works quickly and efficiently: they're erased from all the security footage, any and all evidence incinerated, alibis forged to explain away the carnage in the lab. They move on, move forward, like always—Copley's left with their demand of having at least a month to recharge and stay under the radar, and he promises them he'll be in touch (to which Andy cuts in and tells him that _they'll_ be in touch with _him_ ). The November safe house has been restocked, and now their focus is the drive back to Goussainville. 

Andy's quiet as she drives, as she undoubtedly thinks of those photos and highlighted articles strung up over Copley's walls. It's all Joe can see, glimpses of them throughout history, and it makes him feel lighter. Nicky leaves his palm tipped upwards on Joe's knee; he doesn't even hesitate before he laces their fingers together. 

This process isn't usually something that they'd risk—backtracking somewhere they'd been exposed, captured, betrayed—but there are things even _they_ would prefer not to live without. 

Silently, as if they're crossing over a tomb, they split up when they get to what remains of the church and their little home behind it; they tidy up, pick through the rubble, pack their bags. Nicky finds him keeping watch near the front of the safe house, where a chunk of the wall has been blown out, as he worries a loose thread in the cuff of his shirt between his thumb and index finger. After some work, Nicky's found what's most important to them: his longsword and some books, which Joe knows are special not for their titles or editions, but for the love letters and sketches pressed between the pages. Nicky also presents Joe's sheathed scimitar and the journal he's currently working on, only the spine slightly scuffed up, along with his favourite leather jacket. 

Nicky drags his thumb over Joe's knuckles, hooking his chin over Joe's shoulder. It lasts for all of thirty seconds, but it's enough for Joe to feel centred, warm, assured. In Italian, Joe promises, " _all is well,_ " and he means it as he squeezes Nicky's hand in his own. 

* * *

Later, he finds Nicky outside, eyes closed and face tilted up to the pinkish gold of the sunset. 

(It's been decided, over tea sweetened with honey, that they'll be heading to Berlin, first. Then Croatia, Tunisia, Nova Scotia—to show Nile the ropes, to begin her training, to show her some of their safe houses that happened to coordinate with some of the touristy destinations Nile's pulled up on her phone, eyes gleaming with anticipation. It keeps them together, it keeps Nile from the impulse to visit Chicago, it gives them time to be together without the threat of being shot at. Joe longs for this time, happy that the rest of them seem to be on the same page as him: even if it would be safer to split up, there's no chance of that happening). 

Settling down on the step next to him, stretching out his legs, Joe tries to prepare for the trip by wrangling in his accent again. He tells Nicky, "you look dashing, my love," in German. In response, Nicky's eyes glint as he looks at him, and Joe grins, easy and open, before resting a hand on his knee. 

The conversation turns away from plans and secure boarding passes and discussions that manage to avoid all mentions of Booker's name. Nicky knocks their shoulders together and asks him: "Tell me, what did you dream of last night?" 

It's a familiar back-and-forth, one that grounds them no matter where they are, reminding them of their earliest days; days spent deciphering dreams they inexplicably shared, to start shaping each other's languages in their mouths, to start coming to an understanding, one that would take years to really fortify. 

"You," Joe replies easily, without even thinking. Nicky gives him a look, and Joe shrugs and adds: "Malta. The second time." 

"Ah," Nicky smiles, reaching out to finally curl his hand atop Joe's, his thumb absently tracing along the prominent tendons and veins there. He looks off into the distance for a moment, caught up in the memories of that trip. Each time they visit Malta, something happens that they seem to treasure—coming to a real truce for the first time or admitting their feelings out loud or exchanging vows under the moonlight or carving out time between jobs for a long weekend of mind-blowing sex—and they hold onto those memories as tightly as possible. 

When he meets Joe's eyes, Nicky's face is washed in gold, and it seems fitting. Joe finds himself mesmerized, as always, itching for a pencil, just as Nicky continues. "Perhaps we could do it again." 

"You might have to be more specific, my heart," Joe teases, leaning close enough to kiss Nicky's jaw. "We've done lots of things worth revisiting." 

Nicky's smile reaches his eyes, this time, and it's a sight so beautiful that Joe vows—for, he guesses, the hundred-millionth time—that he'll always do whatever he can to pull that look from him. Nicky cups Joe's right hand between both of his palms, and simply states: "I meant _this._ " 

Joe has an affinity for jewelry, always has. 

In the beginning, he'd pick through market stalls for these beautiful things he cherishes so much. For the most part, however, his jewelry—more specifically, his rings—are gifts from Nicky, a silent yet public show of affection. Today Joe's sporting two of them, both ancient in comparison to this church they sit outside of. 

Nicky twirls the thicker one, solid silver and adorned with tiny engravings, around and around his ring finger. It'd been the first one Nicky proposed to him with, kissing it after Joe slipped it on, a mix of Ligurian and Arabic strung together to form a dialect that only the two of them could understand. It'd been on that same trip to Malta, both of them so wrapped up in one another that it was impossible not to face the outside world as unchanged men; as men that didn't wholeheartedly belong to one another—even if Andy and Quynh had been the only people in the world to know. 

Joe hums in agreement, mostly focused on the way Nicky still absentmindedly plays with his ring. "It's been a while since the last one, hasn't it?" 

Leaning back a little, Nicky regards him like he's something to be treasured; a look of unflappable love that Nicky has practically etched into the beautiful features of his face by now. In the same German that Joe had dropped on him not ten minutes ago, Nicky says, "it is a gift that we have all the time in the world to fix that." 

Joe snorts, and can't help the smile that spreads over his face like wildfire. 

They know their time will eventually come, something they've understood since they first met Andy, but they can't walk on eggshells. They will leave together. They will get married whenever and wherever the fuck they want until they are old, _old_ men—it's just a sure thing that they've always talked about. He takes advantage of this moment where it's just the two of them, and moves in close to press a kiss to Nicky's temple, letting it linger. 

"I love you," Nicky tells him, and it's like the ground shifts; it's like the world is aligned properly. It's the same damned feeling that burns behind Joe's ribs that's been there since he'd whispered those three words for the first time so many centuries ago. 

Even if there's a strange uncertainty clouding over them all for the first time in a long time, there's so much good to find, too. There's Andy's new spark of hopefulness, there's the wide grin Nile had given him when he told her how they'd check out the Pergamon Museum once they were settled in Berlin—really, any art exhibition she had her heart set on seeing, Joe vowed to show her—and there's the way the sun nestles itself beyond the horizon now, leaving streaks of violet and dusty rose in the sky in her wake. 

There's the way their fingers are still tangled together. There's the invisible string that ties them to one another. He knows that no matter what, he has Nicky, and Nicky has him. 

"And I love you," Joe says, feeling nothing but warmth and absolute certainty as he softly adds: "Always." 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! comments/kudos are greatly appreciated!!


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